


Let’s Get to Bed

by timey_wimey_wayward_lock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Late Night Writing, Lonely John, Love, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timey_wimey_wayward_lock/pseuds/timey_wimey_wayward_lock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick, little fan fiction about John's post-nightmare activity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let’s Get to Bed

**Author's Note:**

> So, I hope you all enjoy this! If you do, feel free to send me a comment and/or give some kudos. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> If you see any mistakes, tell me, so I can fix them.
> 
> I also have some other fics you can check out by going to my profile.
> 
> If you post this link on tumblr, please be sure to let me know and include my name. My tumblr is guitarriffsandamazingships. 
> 
> -timey_wimey_wayward_lock

The moon was high, reflecting white light out into the dull streets of London. The lamps along the roads were illuminating the path, for the few vehicles still on route. The lights of other shops and flats were dimmed, or out, for it was extremely late in the evening. Around 2:00 in the morning, per say. Though, without looking at the clock, one could never be sure. The flat was chilly, and the blond man shivered in his place. His deep, ultramarine eyes looked through the slightly foggy glass, and a sigh passed through his skinny lips. There was a tremble in his hands, though he did his best to suppress it. The feeling of loneliness wrapped him in a cold blanket, making him shiver yet again, as he brushed a few strands of too-long hair from his forehead. He was wearing a pair of thin pajamas, socks on his feet, but the cold was merely in his mind. Each time he blinked, there was a flash of red and a glimpse of wounded flesh. Of those who died, and those who he couldn’t save.

There were a couple stumbling down Baker Street. They were grinning, toppling over each other, arms wrapped around each other. Young, reckless, carefree; many years to go before they were old and grey, wounded and sore, tired and sickly. That’s how everyone ended up, he knew. He was becoming close. The hair on his head was tipped with grey, his muscles ached and he was tired. Not nearly as old as some, but nearing fifty. Nearly old enough to know that he was too late for any chance to do anything spectacular, and too late to find his home.

John looked to his feet, an envious and frustrated hum coming from his mouth. But, above all, he still felt alone. With his PTSD, insomnia, and just his mere thoughts. He needed someone, but couldn’t find the ability to ask. He’d dealt with it alone enough to know he was clearly capable of handling it on his own. Or was he?

The flat was dim with its usual demeanor, and its smell was that of musk, tea, and science equipment. There was complete silence, apart from the doctor’s breathing, and the breathing of those who slept soundly both a room away, and downstairs in the second flat. Sucking in a deep breath, John clasped his hands in front of him, before letting out the large breath. The lights were off, leaving him in almost complete darkness. His eyes had adjusted to the black, and were still watching out the window. Besides the moon, there seemed to be an endless void. Filled with unseen stars and planets, along with things the human race might not ever figure out. And below, was the horizon of city lights. Small, but twinkling.

 

\--

 

A weightless hold.

 

Two contradictory limbs, both strong and limp at the same moment.

 

They pulled John into a bed of warmth; a chest that was just as contradictory as the limbs attached to it. Both soft and comfortable, but strong and protective. All porcelain and smooth dips, warmer than it seemed. A pointed chin tucked into the crook of the blond man’s neck, and the cacophony of brunet curls tickled John’s skin. His own tanned flesh was tinted sanguine; nerves, embarrassment, love.

 

The warmth radiating from the second body was enough to sweep up the loneliness. It drifted across skin like heated, feathered wisps, replacing the cold with something much more wonderful. Two souls merged as skin touched, and as the moment was shared.

 

“Let’s get to bed,” said the man with the inviting warmth, his deep baritone like liquid velvet, coursing through John’s veins like a delicious drug. Except, instead of cunning and sensual, the statement was one of concern, to lead the blond into safety and happiness. Along with the voice, thin fingers locked onto calloused ones, tugging towards a different part of the flat.

 

John didn’t speak a word, merely followed.

 

Delicate sheets.

 

Warm bodies.

 

Entangled limbs.

 

 

John had found his place, and had someone who intended to keep him there forever.

 

But, then again, it wasn't as if John ever planned to leave.


End file.
